Two Way Street
by boondocks-s
Summary: When Beth Greene stumbles upon Daryl Dixon and his newborn baby—homeless on an empty street corner—she decides to invite them into her home for the night. Little did she know how much they would change her life.
1. Prologue

Time stopped.

The air in his lungs was stolen, gone—just like that. He felt like he'd been shoved flat on his back and the wind had been knocked from his chest. He hadn't felt that sensation in years, not since his father had slammed him onto their kitchen floor with veins bulging beneath his stained wife-beater and a snarl so fierce it'd made him nearly piss his pants in fear. He remembers gasping like a fish and rolling on the floor when it was over, trying to suck in precious oxygen, his eyes blown wide with shock and his ribs cracking, shooting splinters into his abdomen with every desperate cry for breath.

There had been four cracked ribs, a broken nose, a sprained wrist, and a face bloody and bruised beyond recognition. He couldn't move for weeks after that and had pissed blood for a month. But that pain, so long ago, so distant—it was nothing compared to what he felt at that moment.

"You goddamn idiot."

Daryl's eyes rose to give his brother a glare before returning to the withering mess in his lap. The longer he stared at it, the clearer it became. And the sudden dread that filled Daryl was instantaneous, like he'd been shocked by an electric current. The jolt of realization made his heart stop, and he felt like his lungs had been punctured with a sharp knife, all the air rushing out at once.

"You just had to get your dick wet," Merle continued. He leaned back in his chair, eyes briefly flickering to the TV behind Daryl. "Thought I taught you better than to fuck a bitch with no rubber—"

Daryl's teeth grit, "Shut-up, Merle. I ain't in the mood," he hissed.

But Merle only laughed sharply in response, "Am I hurtin' your feelings, lil' brother?" He smiled and snatched his beer from the table, taking a swig and then resting it on his lap. "Hey," he suddenly said, his demeanor changing in an instant and his smile gone. He turned and flicked on the floor lamp next to the recliner, creating a strange, pale glow. "You ain't gonna keep it here are ya'?" He nodded to the baby in Daryl's lap.

"I don't got no other place to go, Merle," the younger man grumbled, shifting the newborn into his right arm so he could cradle him. His son was silent at the moment and it looked as though his face was set in a perpetual scowl, feature scrunched and pudgy like a bull dog. On his head was a thin tuff of hair and he was smaller than the average newborn, curtesy of his crack-head momma who was currently doing time in a Georgia State Prison.

"Well, I ain't changin' its shits, ya' got me," Merle spoke up, crossing his ankle atop his knee as he reached for a pack of cigarettes that had been on the floor, "I ain't playin' around."

"You don't gotta do nothin'," Daryl grunted.

Silence lingers between them, heavy and thick in the semi-darkness, and Merle brought a lighter up to the cigarette held captive between his lips, giving it a few clicks before a flame emerged. When he looks back to the younger man across the room, Daryl is staring down at his son with an expression that has Merle shifting awkwardly in his recliner. His brother, with his hair ruffled and his hands and arms smeared in patches of black grease, was looking down at the baby with an unreadable expression. Merle would almost call it _soft_, a look that, coming from Dixon, was entirely foreign. Merle cleared his throat, uncomfortable.

"'Ya' got a name for it?" he mumbled around the tobacco lodged in the corner of his mouth.

Daryl's mouth quirked, "Named 'im Neckbone."

"Mm," a slow smile stretched over Merle's face, "Neckbone Dixon," He let a string of smoke descend from between his lips and then rolled his cigarette between his meaty fingers. "That ain't too bad, lil' brother. Ya' coulda' done worse."

Daryl simply grunted in response.

He turned back to the sleeping baby in his arms and continued to stare, trying to make sense of his newfound role in life. A goddamn, motherfucking _father_. The word was like acid on his tongue and he swallowed it down with a grimace.

For a moment, he thought back to when he was a kid, and his dad was dragging him towards the cellar. His father had just hit him in the stomach with the broad side of a baseball bat, and he couldn't breathe. He knew fighting back would be futile and that whatever punishment he tried to inflict on his father would only be returned to him in double. So he let himself be dragged towards the stairs even as he wheezed for breath, the walls closing in—

Daryl suddenly felt overwhelmed. He shifted the five-day old newborn in his arms and he clenched his jaw against the anxiety growing in his stomach. What the hell was he _doing?_ He couldn't raise a baby—dammit, the thought was almost laughable. He had a shit job, no money and lived with a doped up brother who was practically drowning in drugs and booze. He didn't even have a _crib_ for Christ's sake.

And for a few moments, Daryl thinks about adoption. His son would live a comfortable life with a man and woman who would love and adore him and shower him with gifts. He would get an education and live in a big house and would never have to worry about going to bed with an empty stomach.

But then, Daryl thinks about all the things he would miss—his boy's first steps, his first words, his face when he blows out the candles of his first birthday cake. And then he thinks about all the things he'd never know, like his favorite hobbies, or his favorite subject in school, or what his room looks like, or how he looks when he's safe and tucked into bed sleeping.

And he knows he's too fucking selfish to give Neckbone up. For the first time in his life, Daryl has a purpose, and that was in the baby squirming in his arms.

Hesitantly, with all the care he could muster, Daryl ran his fingers over the soft plain of his son's cheek, his lips quirking when the baby began to wave his arm back and forth in the air. Daryl cautiously stroked his palm with a tip of his finger and Neckbone immediately wrapped his own around his father's with a sure grip. The older man's smirk widened, feeling an emotion he wasn't used to feeling build up in his chest.

Merle's voice broke through the quiet moment, asking, "You gonna keep it?"

Daryl nodded slowly, his eyes still trained on the dark blue eyes staring up at him.

"Yeah," he mumbled. "Yeah, I'm gonna keep 'im."


	2. Chapter One

She hadn't planned on meeting him.

She had other plans that day, other things she'd wanted to do. She had absolutely no intentions of walking up to him, striking up a conversation and eventually asking him over to her home. She never . . . _did_ things like that.

Beth had just exited the library, stepping out into the torrent of rain falling from the sky and sheltering her face from the sudden onslaught. It was coming down a lot harder than she'd thought expected and she pulled her jacket tighter around her small frame to fight off the cold.

Her boots squeaked nosily with every step as she splashed down the pavement toward her daddy's truck. Herschel was staying the night at their neighbors, the Hardy's, to help deliver their cow's baby, so Beth had the house to herself until tomorrow afternoon. With the colder weather, she'd decided to stop by the library to grab a book so she could curl up by the fireplace and sip hot-coco until she passed out from exhaustion. It had been a while since she'd gotten an evening to herself and was she practically skipping through the icy downpour in her excitement to get home.

Beth would always play a game every time she was on the sidewalk. She made sure that she always avoided the cracks, even if it meant standing on her tippy-toes or occasionally placing one foot in the grass to avoid a particularly nasty, spider-webbed crack. This time, however, the game did not register in her mind, and she jogged as fast as her legs would carry her, long curls whipping behind her in her frenzy.

But as she neared the white vehicle, she paused momentarily at the sight of a person sitting alone on the bus stop bench—which Beth thought a little odd since the bus didn't come by this late in the evening. Instantly, she was filled with a sudden shock of curiosity. As she moved past him, the stranger slowly raised his head, looking up at her through short, dark hair. And Beth's stomach dropped into the pit of her stomach then, and for a moment, she was without breath.

The man, who was clearly a lot older than herself, had powerful shoulders, a fierce face, and eyes that seemed to flash and glitter with warning. It was a face to be dominated by, or to fight: never one to patronize or pity. His lips were pulled into a deep frown and his eyes—a deep, troubled blue—narrowed dangerously. She let her gaze roam lower, taking in his frame. He was holding a tiny bundle in his arms and immediately, Beth felt her interest spike. She paused mid-step and for some reason, she felt the need to move closer.

"Hi," she said softly, a little unsure of herself. She swallowed, not sure why she was approaching some random stranger in the middle of a rain storm. It wasn't like her at all, and she wondered why she felt the need to talk to him in the first place. Pushing back a strand of hair, she summoned the courage to speak. "My name's Beth." She bit her lower lip and waited for the stranger to respond.

But he never did. He simply eyed her disheveled appearance with a mean expression, the space behind his eyes entirely empty. His gaze roamed over her flushed cheeks and drooping curls, lastly settling on her bright blue-eyes that were blinking at him from beneath wet lashes. She bowed her head to the pavement under his scrutiny and her cheeks warmed.

Since he hadn't spoken, Beth decided to try again. She swirled the toe of her cowboy boots in a small puddle that had gathered beneath the bus shelter.

"I was walkin' by," she explained. "And I just thought you looked a little lonely," she trailed off uncertainly, not sure what to say next. The man was a good few years older than herself, that much was obvious, and Beth got the feeling he didn't want to talk to her. But when the tiny buddle in his arms began to wiggle, she summoned the courage that had buried itself deep within her chest and dared another step closer, "Is that a baby?"

Slowly, the man nodded his head, his eyes leaving hers to stare at the ground.

"Oh," Beth cautiously slumped down onto the bench next to the man, brushing her wet curls over her shoulders as he watched her from the corner of his eye. She scooted back so her legs were dangling an inch above the ground, her boots dripping with excess rain.

The two of them sat in silence for a considerable amount of time, but Beth was never one to keep quiet for long, especially when she was curious, "What's the baby's name?"

"Neckbone."

Her head whirled around to face him and she was so surprised that he spoke to her that it took a second for his words to seep in.

When they did, Beth found herself grinning in amusement, "Neckbone?" she asked. When he nodded, shoulders slumped and head ducked to avoid meeting her gaze directly, her smile widened. "I like it," she declared and she leaned a little closer so she could see inside the bundle, but the man shifted the baby away from her view, clutching him closer.

Beth's shoulders slumped, and for a moment she stared out into the street. Two seconds later, she sighed in exasperation, "Well, what's your name?"

The man looked like he was growing more and more uncomfortable, but he managed to grumble, "Daryl," in a low voice that she had to lean in to hear.

Her smile softened, "It's nice to meet you, Daryl."

For a moment, more silence ensued between them and Beth took the opportunity to try and sneak another peek at the squirming bundle in Daryl's large arms. And when she did, she couldn't help but giggle. Neckbone was quite possibly the grumpiest looking baby Beth had ever laid eyes on—with narrow eyes like his father, a small, down-turned mouth and brows that seemed to be perpetually furrowed. His skinny arms were swinging back and forth and Beth couldn't stop the growing smile on her face.

"He's so cute!" she gushed, wanting to reach out but knowing to keep her hands to herself, "God, how old is he? A few days?"

"Twelve-days," Daryl grunted.

Beth's eyes widened and she looked up at the sky, "Oh, wow—you should probably get goin' then. I heard there's gonna be a storm blowin' in tonight and it ain't gonna be pretty." When she looked up at Daryl's face, she felt her smile slowly fade. Suddenly, the man looked anxious, like he was about to jump out of his skin, "Hey, 'you alright?"

"'M fine," he muttered, clutching his son closer to his chest. The baby began to whine, his tiny voice crying out against the heavy rain pattering against the bus shelter—and Beth watched the way Daryl began to look around desperately, his jaw clenched tight. He had heavy bags under his eyes, suggesting a lifetime of weariness and he was unshaven, his dark hair messy and greasy, suggesting he hadn't washed it in a while.

And just like that, Beth understood.

"You don't have a place to stay?" she asked softly. The man stiffened but didn't deny it—he simply looked down at his newborn, silent.

The words came out of her mouth before she could stop herself, "You can stay at my house."

Beth's eyes widened in surprise at her own boldness. But she didn't take it back. In that moment, she felt calm and decided to roll with the feeling tugging at her gut. Though the dirty-looking man was somewhat intimidating in his stature, he appeared to be more nervous than she was. In his worn jeans, flannel shirt and leather biker's vest, he shifted away from her uneasily. He held his baby close to his chest and peered down at her with dark, wary eyes.

No, he wasn't a bad guy—or at least, that's what she told herself.

"What?" Daryl breathed, his face twisting into a frown.

"You can stay at my house for the night," Beth cocked her head to the side, blonde curls slipping down her shoulders. "My daddy won't be home 'til tomorrow afternoon, so it won't be any trouble."

Daryl's frown deepened, "'Don't need no fuckin' charity," he grumbled

"It ain't about charity—it's about your baby's health. He's gonna get sick in this kind of weather," She moved closer to him and placed a tentative hand on his knee, a pleading look in her eye.

The tips of his ears reddened and his shoulders twitched, and it was all too clear that he didn't know what to say. She didn't want to stop touching him—the physical connection stirring something inside her she thought long since gone—but she sat back anyways and waited for him to make the first move. He looked down at his baby, then to the sky and then back to Neckbone, and Beth could practically see the argument going on in his head.

For a long time, the three of them sat under the bus shelter in the heavy rain and it wasn't until Neckbone's cries grew louder did Daryl finally nod his head, hesitantly.

Beth smiled and stood, "My car's over here."

.

.

.

When everything was quiet, Beth often found her mind wandering back to when she was younger. Back to when her mother would bake cookies for her and Maggie to snack on while the two of them did their homework in the kitchen. She would play old country songs on the radio and together they would sing at the top of their lungs, laughing when Maggie would join in off-key. She would think back to when her and her brother, Shawn would sit on the floor in the in the living room while the afternoon sunlight poured in from the window and warmed their backs. She would watch him shoot Storm Troopers and save the galaxy on his PlayStation, cheering him on by offering him small smiles of encouragement whenever he looked over at her.

Everyone was so happy.

Until her mother and brother abruptly passed away in a car accident.

The death had been so unexpected, so random, that it eroded and tore at the foundation that had been holding her perfect little family together. Her father started drinking in heavy quantities, an action that shocked both her and Maggie.

He was never abusive whenever he was befallen in a drunken stupor, but instead became emotionally distraught. Beth and Maggie would always find him sitting in the living room recliner, beer cans littering the floor at his feet while he quietly sobbed in anguish, the glow of the television illuminating the tears that streaked his cheeks. He became distant after that, always pulling away when Maggie or Beth would try to reach out to him, to comfort him or offer him hugs. Beth didn't know what to think and inside, she felt broken. Her father had always been such an affectionate and jovial man, and now he refused to even hug her. It was strange to see him so sad and broken, and she felt hurt and lonely. It was like another person entirely had invaded his body.

When her mother and brother were still alive, he had been a bit on the heavier side, with round cheeks and belly and shining blue eyes. After their death, he began to drop weight, and fast. He had stopped eating, his face had thinned as had his hair, and his eyes had turned gray, dull, and lifeless. This wasn't the father who had taught her how to fix the flat tires on her bike, nor the father who always said prayers with her before she went to sleep. This was a different man entirely. He was practically a stranger.

Beth remembered one time, after a night of drinking when Hershel was particularly distraught, he brought home a woman with him from town, a woman whom, as Maggie later told her, looked just like mom. Maggie had watched the two of them disappear into the bedroom, and, having been seventeen-years old at the time, knew exactly what was going on between them. Beth, however, was thirteen and incredibly naïve for her age. She hadn't understood what was happening until she finally entered Health class at school.

After that fateful night, Maggie had become rebellious, always causing fights at school and sneaking out late-at-night. At home, Beth had once found a stranger walking out of Maggie's bedroom with his buckle undone—and it wasn't until she found a used condom in the trash that she understood what had happened, even if she would've liked to of make herself believe otherwise.

Hershel was aloof to everything that was going on, or at least pretended to be. This left Beth to try and convince Maggie that what she was doing was wrong and that she needed to stop her destructive behavior—but she never did tell her. She hated herself for it, hated that she was too scared and too afraid of how Maggie might react—so she didn't say anything at all.

When she looked back on her life, and even as she was growing up, she hated how fragile and breakable she was. She'd always hidden behind her self-made blanket of fear and denial, unable to deal with it all and shielding herself from the things she wished weren't happening. And as Hershel progressed further into his state of depression and Maggie descended further into her blind rage, Beth had decided that she was done. She missed her mama and brother and she just wanted to be _happy_ again.

When the blade cut into her skin, she'd nearly screaming at the pain. She'd let out a strained gasp instead and breathed heavily through her noise. The entire expanse of her wrist—shaking and bleeding—burned like copper fire, like someone had poured hot acid over it. And she realized, as the blood began to pour down her forearm and as a rush of adrenaline fear coursed through her like an electrical shock—that she may have, just maybe, inflicted too much damage.

And strangely, she hadn't cared.

That's when Maggie found her, half-dead and bleeding on the bathroom floor, and it had caused something to spark inside both her sister and father. Slowly, but surely, they began to heal as Beth spent the next few weeks recovering in the hospital. Hershel started to attend local AA meetings and Maggie began to focus on school and work. By the time Beth came home, things were . . . better. Not perfect, or happy, or the same as it used to be—but better. It was the greatest gift she could've ever asked for.

A year passed. Hershel sobered and went back to working with the animals and Maggie moved to Atlanta for collage. She had a steady boyfriend, Glenn, whom she was falling in love with and Beth couldn't have been more pleased. Slowly, they were all healing and the world was beginning to spin again.

But there was still this hole inside of Beth, a large, empty feeling inside herself that couldn't be filled. She was active with school and participated in every church concert, social outing, and assignment, but at home, she was withdrawn and reserved. She found ways to put up barriers and would cry herself to sleep every night. And she supposed she would always be like that—half-Beth and half-something else—something angry and lonely and impulsive, something clawing away inside her and leaving her wondering what she was still doing living. But Beth tucked that something away deep, deep inside. She'd deal with it later.

She was good at that.

A loud cry from Neckbone broke Beth from her thoughts and she glanced over to the man and baby sitting shot-gun in her daddy's truck as she pulled into the driveway. Daryl was tugging his lower lip into his mouth with his teeth, tonguing at the cut there.

She stole a sideways glance over at him only to see that he was staring in the opposite direction. This left his face open to her perusal, and Beth was intrigued when she spied a small, deep scratch on his lower lip. She was surprised she hadn't noticed it before since it was so obvious. The cut was crusted over in a deep shade of red—dried blood, she realized.

She stared at the strange scratch unabashedly. The sudden urge to reach out her hand and run the tips of her fingers over his lower lip was overwhelmingly strong. She yearned to feel the puckered flesh there.

Instead, she unbuckled her seatbelt.

"Do you need any help with your bag?"

"'M fine," he replied in a voice that told Beth not want to press the matter further. She retrieved her books from the middle seat as Daryl opened the trunk and hauled a duffel bag out in the rain, throwing it over his shoulder with Neckbone still tucked tightly in his arms. The baby was wailing now, obviously irritated by the storm and Beth quickly led them inside.

She was greeted by the shrill ring of the phone, a sound that caused Beth to sigh in exasperation—it was probably her daddy.

"You can just leave your things right there for now," She motioned to the floor by the steps. "I'll be right back!"

She disappeared into the kitchen, leaving Daryl to stand alone in the doorway. He let his bag slump to the floor as he looked around, rocking Neckbone until his cries slowly softened. The house was clean and well-kept, a stark contrast to his trailer up in the woods. He was unused to the silence as well. No loud music, no TV commercials constantly blaring in the background, no shouting. It was strange being able to hear himself think.

He traced his tongue over the cut on his lower lip as he ventured a few steps into the living room. He read the spines of the books on the nearby bookshelf in silence—most of them having to do with farming and animals—while he pulled a whimpering Neckbone up to his chest, letting the newborn's tiny head rest against his shoulders.

A moment later when Beth returned from the kitchen, she led Daryl upstairs to the guest bedroom, chattering the whole way. The small, square room was plainly decorated—only a single framed picture, a pink rose, hung on the wall. Daryl's gaze flickered around the room and fell on the window. The sheer, white curtains billowed against the draft, giving him a brief glance at a barn sitting on a large field of swaying grass.

He looked back to the girl, who was fussing over the pillows lying on the bed and took a moment to study her. She was slim and had long legs and round blue-eyes. She also appeared to be somewhere in her teens, probably decades younger than him, then. She wasn't model-esque looking by any means, and didn't seem to have any noticeable, striking features about her. She looked ordinary, and maybe that's what appealed to him most about her, the fact that she didn't look so fake or overdone.

"Everythin's a bit dusty," she noted with a frown, more to herself than to him.

Daryl set his duffle bag on the bed, eyeing the white, paisley bedspread with a blank expression.

Beth smiled and laughed as if she knew what he was thinking. "I know it's probably not what you're used to—"

Daryl shook his head, "'S fine."

Beth nodded and wrapped her arms around her waist, rocking back and forth on her feet, "There's more blankets in the closet down the hall, right next to the bathroom if you need any. And help yourself to anythin' in the fridge if you get hungry, it won't be a problem at all. Oh, and if you want to take a shower, I can wash your clothes." She paused for a moment before her face suddenly reddened and her eyes went wide. "Not that you need to shower or anythin'! I just thought you might want one because of how cold it is, I really didn't—"

Daryl cut off her embarrassed chatter with a blunt, "I smell like shit."

There was a moment of silence as Daryl looked down at Neckbone, shifting the baby in his arms. He then slowly turned his head to look down at Beth, who still standing in the middle of the room.

As if she read his mind, she stepped forward.

"I can watch him if you want," she offered. "I babysit all the time."

They stared at each other for a few more seconds, Daryl silently contemplating her possible motives, and Beth's smile softened. He couldn't help but take note that the girl didn't seem afraid of him, like most people were. Sure, she was apprehensive and maybe a little uncomfortable, but that was natural for a teenager who just invited a complete stranger into her home. He looked back down to Neckbone and shifted back and forth on his feet. He hadn't set the baby down in days and the thought of being away from him sent a shock of hysteria through Daryl's spine.

A soft voice broke through his thoughts. "It's alright, Daryl," Beth whispered and his eyes rose to see her standing patiently a few feet away, all young and fresh and clean, and he found himself nodding.

"'Be back in five minutes." He grunted, "All 'is shit's in the bag."

She nodded and reached out, and Daryl slowly set Neckbone into her arms—his heart thumping painfully in his chest when his son's weight left him. The baby immediately began to wail but the girl simply rocked him, her face calm and confident and for a moment, Daryl bit down on the nail of his thumb and watched.

Something strange jolted in his stomach. His brows furrowed as Beth cooed and ran her fingers over Neckbone's thin tuff of hair. There was something so natural and maternal in the way Neckbone's head rested against the girl's small chest, his loud cries softening to whimpers and hiccups while she swayed and danced around the room.

He quickly turned and left.

.

.

.

Daryl smirked down at Neckbone as he suckled on the bottle in his hands, the newborn's blue-eyes closed as he breathed in and out through his nose. Through the curtains that hung from the window, Daryl could see the dark rain clouds looming in the night sky. A static electricity seemed to hang in the air, a small warning for the impending thunderstorm that was scheduled to arrive later that evening.

His clean body sagging in relief—in relief of being able to keep his son warm and dry and healthy.

And it was all because of the little blonde girl across the hall.

He leaned back against the bed's headboard and closed his eyes, tonging the cut on his lower lip. When he opened his eyes again, lightning struck the sky, creating strange, distorted shadows on the walls. He looked back down to his son to see he was practically asleep, his little mouth languidly sucking on the bottle's nipple.

Daryl couldn't quite place it, the way he felt with Neckbone—the way he curled into his chest and reached for his fingers. Never in his life had he ever felt such a strong, genuine desire to be around another human being. Neckbone made him feel wanted—needed, even. No one had ever needed him before. He'd only been a burden to his dad, to Merle, to society . . . but with Neckbone, he'd completely flipped the tables on him. For once in his miserable life, he felt good. Like he wasn't a complete waste of space in this miserable shithole called earth. Now, Daryl Dixon had a son—a purpose, a reason to keep moving forward and living.

After burping the twelve-day old, Daryl laid the sleeping baby on his chest and let himself drift off in the warm comfortable bed beneath him, dressed in a pair of too large sweat-bottoms and a t-shirt that smelt like fresh cotton.

He would thank the girl in the morning.


	3. Chapter Two

Daryl awoke in the middle of the night to a tiny body squirming against him. It was still dark out, but the light coming in from beneath the door across the room was bright enough for his eyes to focus. Neckbone, who was swaddled and laying across his stomach, tilted his head up and cooed when their gaze met.

Daryl attempted a grin, but it was a tired one, and he looked more constipated than happy. The baby, apparently, didn't like this, and his own expression began to change in response. Daryl could tell this was going very south, very fast. Neckbone's little mouth twisted into a frown, his eyes crinkled and filled with alligator tears, and Daryl's stomach twisted in panic. He looked around the room, remembering where he was, and sat up, pulling Neckbone into his arms.

_Please don't—_

And then he screamed, and it was bloodcurdling and_loud_.

"Sh, sh, sh," Daryl said. He rocked the baby in his arms but it was more of a desperate shake, which made him cry harder. "Yer' fine, boy. 'Nough of that," he begged.

_Fuck_. That girl was gonna to kick them out if he didn't get the kid to calm down.

His eyes scanned the room like the solution to his problem lied therein, and in fact it did, when he spotted the bottle that he'd left on the small stand next to the bed. Daryl sat up and grabbed the bottle as Neckbone continued to scream in his arms. He then reached for their bag and grabbed the powdered milk, making a beeline for the kitchen downstairs. The baby's wails were practically bouncing off the walls now, and he quickened his pace and cursed under his breath, feeling more and more anxious. He was tired, and slightly disoriented, and Neckbone's cries were making his head pound.

When he made it to the kitchen, he poured the milk's powder into the bottle and filled it with water as he juggled Neckbone in one arm—letting out an audible breath of relief when he set it in the microwave to warm. When he looked down, the baby was tracking his face with watery eyes, visibly trying to wave his arms that were currently tucked under a blanket. His face was blotched red with tears and mucous and Daryl wiped Neckbone's face as he continued to cry.

When the microwave beeped, Daryl quickly pulled out the milk and coaxed the bottle toward the baby's mouth and it took a second, but once Neckbone realized it was there he latched on immediately. And the silence that followed was blessed, even if his screams continued to resound in Daryl's head like a broken record player that was stuck on a groove.

For the moment, he was content, and Daryl carefully stalked to the couch and lowered himself onto it. He felt like he'd just had the battle of his life. He looked at the clock on the DVD player beneath the TV.

It was three-fifteen.

Daryl let his head fall back against the couch in exhaustion, but was upright in a second when Neckbone hiccupped around the bottle. He started to pull back on it in case the infant needed a break, but Neckbone was determined to have more milk and didn't want to let up, so Daryl didn't stop him. All the while, his son's narrow blue-eyes were staring up at him, so serious and solemn.

Daryl never knew it was possible to feel so judged by a_baby_. He felt like he could see into the darkest depths of his soul.

"Yer' creepin' me out with the starin', boy."

Neckbone blinked at him, sucked noisily on the bottle, and didn't look away.

Daryl was determined to look elsewhere at first and try to get some more shut-eye, but he couldn't ignore those eyes, and that face so similar to his own, and his attention returned to Neckbone against his better judgment. He was actually . . . maybe, sort of, kind of cute—and just knowing that the word _cute_ crossed his mind caused Daryl to grimace. He could tell Neckbone took more after himself, but he had his mama, Pam's, nose and maybe her lips too, but it was still too early to tell.

Daryl ran his fingers over the infant's almost-bald head and let a tiny smile twitch over his lips. "This ain't so bad," Daryl murmured, shifting Neckbone in his arms. "We'll get through this. Me 'n you. I'mma take care'a you, ya' hear?" The baby continued to stare at him. "You got no idea what I'm sayin' right now, uh?"

The staring contest continued. A couple minutes later, Neckbone finished the bottle, and Daryl put it on the coffee table where his bare feet were propped up.

Daryl maneuvered the baby so he was hovering over his thighs, holding him under his arms. Neckbone's limbs flailed a little bit, and he was too young to stretch out his tiny legs and balance on them. The infant grunted and reached for his cotton shirt that the girl had given him, fascinated by it. Daryl let him play with it for all of ten seconds—before clutching him to his chest in a moment of panic when he caught something moving out the corner of his eye.

Neckbone let out a small cry at his tight grip and Daryl turned to find a pair of round-orbs peeking-out from around the corner. He immediately relaxed against the couch.

It was the girl. Beth.

"I'm sorry!" She hopped out from behind the corner, cheeks flushed red and hair falling in a curly disarray down her back. She was dressed in a large t-shirt and a pair of shorts—feet bare. "I just . . . I heard the baby and I thought you might, you know . . . need somethin'?" she asked.

Daryl shifted Neckbone into a more comfortable position in his arms and silently shook his head. For a few moments, he couldn't stop looking at her. Not because he wanted to do something to her—_jailbait_, he could hear Merle hiss in his ear, _never had nothing but Jesus between those lips and a feller don't got enough dick to teach the girl right_—but because he realized there were men that might. That she wasn't meant for the select few who go for kids, with her porcelain white skin and round, child-like eyes—she might as well be a salt lick in a desert.

Daryl found himself frowning at the thought, though he had no idea why. She was just some girl letting him and his kid spend the night until the storm blew over, nothing more.

He watched as she shuffled under his stare, moving toward the kitchen.

"Want somethin' to eat?" she asked, already pulling out a can of soup from one of the higher cupboards.

Daryl nodded and moved toward the empty table by the living room, wrapping Neckbone back up in his blanket as he dropped down into a chair with a grunt. He could still hear the rain pattering against the kitchen window and the steady rhythm made his eyes droop. He could hear the girl boiling up the stew on the stove and when he looked over to her—bare feet gliding across the floor and long hair swaying with her domestic movements—the sight made a weird feeling swell in his stomach.

He quickly pushed it down, uncomfortable.

When the girl came back over with the steaming bowl of soup, she placed it delicately in front of Daryl and settled down beside him. He grunted out a thanks and shifted Neckbone into one arm, awkwardly spearing a potato with his left hand.

Beth quickly noticed. "I can hold him again, if you want," she offered.

Daryl's eyes flickered up to her, "I got 'im."

"It's fine, really," she was looking at him expectantly now, hands folded in front of her as she smiled. "I love holdin' babies," she gushed.

It wasn't that Daryl didn't trust the girl or thought she was going to hurt Neckbone—he just wasn't used to other people holding his kid. Merle wouldn't even look a Neckbone, let alone touch him, and all this interest she had for his son was strange to him. When Daryl looked down, the baby was swaddled in his arms so only the top of his head was uncovered, revealing peach-fuzz hair and rosy cheeks that he often got after eating. He was content, eyes closed, and when Daryl looked back up at the girl, she still had that soft smile on her lips, though it was a bit faded now.

Daryl carefully handed Neckbone to Beth, watching her cradle him against her chest before he turned back to swallow down large spoonfuls of hot beef stew as quickly as he could. He didn't like having Neckbone out of his arms, not since he had gotten so used to the weight of his boy's tiny body in his arms, and it felt uncomfortable when they were empty, like he was missing a limb, an extension of himself—which Neckbone _was_.

"How'd you get that cut on your lip?"

He glanced back up to the girl, who was now leaning back comfortably with Neckbone dozing on her shoulder, and shrugged. "It's nothin'," he muttered.

"You sure? I can get you some—"

"Just a fuckin' cut," the words came out meaner than he meant them to—or maybe just mean enough, in the moment he couldn't tell—and he expected her to pitch a fit, but all she did was nod serenely, like she understood.

Daryl took another large bite of soup, shifting awkwardly.

"You know, if you want to talk about what happened, I wouldn't mind," she looked up at him through her lashes, "That why you were under the bus stop?" she asked.

Daryl's eyes narrowed, "Why d'you care?"

She shrugged. "It might make you feel better."

"Doubt it."

"Okay."

They fell into silence, then, and Daryl watched as she looked back down to Neckbone, a small smile stretching over her lips. When his son yawned widely, revealing his toothless gums, Beth laughed and the sound reminded him of the tinkling bells, pleasant to his ears. She looked up at him and blushed, pink warming the apples of her cheeks. For some reason, he thought it was _cute—_and he grimaced at the thought, knowing he would get his ass beat if his pa had been there to see him.

Daryl eventually huffed out a frustrated sigh after he finished the soup, seeming annoyed with her silence despite having all but asked for it. "My brother had some friends over."

Beth's head whipped up, so surprised that he spoke that it took a second for his words to seep in. When they did, she was taken aback once more. She debated back and forth whether or not he would appreciate her saying something, but he unexpectedly kept talking.

"Normally it ain't such a big deal, but . . . I don't want 'em 'round Neckbone. It ain't," he paused, letting out a silent sigh. "Tried to get Merle to kick 'em out, but he kicked us out instead. Got a little rough."

He shrugged then, like it was no big deal—but Beth could see the stiffness in his shoulders and pronounced clench in his jaw.

Beth frowned, whispering, "I'm sorry."

She followed the movement of his throat when he swallowed, and didn't miss the way his shoulders tensed when he raised them to lean his elbows on the table top, "Whatever, fuck 'im. Don't matter anyways."

"He's your brother," There was no pity in Beth's expression, only empathy. "Mine passed away four-years ago, but . . . he wouldn't have left us out on our own. Brother's shouldn't do that."

Daryl's eyes immediately zeroed back in on Beth, asking lowly before he could stop himself, "How'd it happen?"

"He and my mama . . . they got in a car crash."

She realized that he had been studying her, and was now eying the scar on her wrist that was left visable now without all her bracelets. She instinctively moved to hide it, but stopped. He was not judging her, as far as she could tell. In fact, she could've sworn that there was a look of recognition on his face. As tough a man as he looked, he seemed to be no stranger to loss, which made her wonder if he knew firsthand what it was like to be permanently marred by it—if he was scarred like she was.

"My mama . . ." there was a pregnant pause before Daryl spoke again, as if he was giving whatever he was about to say extra consideration. "She's dead too," Daryl mumbled, swallowing. "Fire."

"Do you ever think of her?"

"What?"

"I mean . . . do you ever think that if you had . . . loved her more, maybe she wouldn't have died?"

Daryl frown deepened, as did the crease between his brows when they drew together.

"Because with my mama and brother, I think . . . maybe if I would've spent more time with them, or if I had stopped them from going to the store . . . maybe they would still be here." It was a little more honest than she intended to be, but she didn't take it back. She trusted that he would understand. "Sometimes I think about how my mama won't ever see my graduation, or my weddin' day. She won't see me grow up. She won't . . . tell me how much she loved me today."

Neckbone had fallen asleep she suddenly realized, and she could feel his tiny chest rising and falling from under the blanket he was wrapped in, cheeks flushed. The quiet somehow made her feel all the more vulnerable and her words became more significant, more secretive, when she softens her voice.

"It's all I can think about sometimes, you know? And even after all these years I can never forget. No one will let me forget, not with . . ." she swallowed and scooted closer to Daryl, placing a tentative hand on his knee, a pleading look in her eye. "And all I wanna do is forget. I wanna change, be someone else. Be better—stronger."

The silence that followed her confession was deafening. She felt as if the pale flowers sitting on the table in front of her had all wilted, that their vines had become so deprived of oxygen that they had shriveled up and died, no longer able to bear the weight of their beautiful roses.

Daryl considered her a moment, glancing down at her hand on his knee and then peering up at her from under his long eyelashes. "What if we can't?"

"We can," she insisted, because she wasn't the only one that needed to hear it. "We can."

Raindrops pounded against the kitchen window, the only other sounds being the house settling and the dryer in the laundry room across the hall.

"I'm sorry for layin' all this on you," Beth finally said, fighting back the tears that were threatening to rise to the surface. She cried far too much these days as it was.

"'S fine," he grunted

"Well, thanks for listenin', anyway." Beth's cheeks flushed and she laughed breathlessly. "I really needed that."

She was still touching him, a fact they were both very conscious of. The tips of his ears were reddening, his hands twitched, and it was all too clear that he didn't know how to react. She didn't want to stop touching him, the physical connection stirring something inside her she thought long since gone—excitement. It was so faint that it was barely there at all, but after years of nothing, it was enough to remind her that she was not dead. But he was uncomfortable, and that was more important. She lightly squeezed his knee, ready to pull away when he placed his own hand over hers, keeping it there.

"Why're you lettin' us stay here?"

Beth shifted Neckbone in her free arm, cocking her head. "Do I need a reason?"

"Yeah."

The upturn of her lips felt like the most natural thing in the world.

"It felt right."

.

.

.


End file.
